


tried that/didn’t work

by blacksatinpointeshoes



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, OH also major char death is only in dreams but i tagged for the warning, Sleep Deprivation, i can’t believe i have genuine feelings about this garbage man, i just. I adore this trope, the whole fic is ‘alex voice: just a haggard wreck of a man’
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 16:40:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18608437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacksatinpointeshoes/pseuds/blacksatinpointeshoes
Summary: Oscar knows his limits. He knows how long ago he’s crossed that threshold. But it’s fine, after all.He’sfine.





	tried that/didn’t work

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you have Feelings about sad garbage men and then write about them, and get this. I cannot BELIEVE I’ve done this . I cannot. I cannot BELIEVE alex made me have genuine emotions about this whole situation fuck you Alex (kidding) 
> 
> thank you as always to to ross (roswyrm), who was the first to hear me yell ‘oh my god am I sad about WILDE????????’
> 
> and with that said, with all my love and exasperation, enjoy :)

Oscar knows how to be tired. He’s good at putting on a smile after working long hours and knows with confidence that perfection is at a snap of his fingers. It’s easy, performing, and Oscar is good at it, and he knows how to be tired.

It becomes normal. He sleeps so little that he doesn’t realise when his work-related late nights morph into bouts of insomnia, because there’s always paperwork to be done. There are always people to save. Meritocratic teams on the ground need him, and they don’t care how his night went _(well,_ sometimes they do, but not in a ‘concerned-about-Oscar’s-health’ type of way).

Dealing with insomnia doesn’t phase him, either. Oscar is a busy man. Maybe sleeping less will do him some good. Or the people he works with. The people he works for. Maybe sleeping less will help _someone._ That’s the excuse Oscar goes with, because he doesn’t need help.

He’s fine. His co-workers haven’t noticed that anything is wrong, which means there’s no reason for anyone to panic.

Once Oscar’s concentration starts to blur, he goes to a temple. He’s proud, yes, but he’s not stupid, which means if there’s a serious issue, Oscar can and will take care of himself. It’s embarrassing to be poked and prodded like a child, asked questions about his sexual health, and made to strip off on a cold table while some cleric runs diagnostics for what feels like ages, but he lets it happen.

The temple offers a small token of wine for ‘good health,’ which Oscar accepts with no great dignity and downs in a single swallow. He shouldn’t have expected anything else from the Dionysus lot.

That night, Oscar sits down, sorts all his work into stacks according to relevance, and lies down in his bed for the first time all week. The pillows have started to gather dust. Oscar forces himself to try, at least, because he needs to be useful, and he can’t be useful if he can’t think.

It would be generous to say he catches four total hours of sleep that night. None of them are sound. The moment Oscar drifts away, he is assaulted by graphic visions of his teams, murdered, dying, wheezing, and instinctively he knows that they are dying because of him. Oscar handles many Meritocratic operations, but the broken bodies of the LOLOMG crop up more than any of the others.

He even sees Bertie— _Sir Bertrand,_ choking on nothing, his eyes full of blame. He even sees Zolf, blazing with righteous fury and driven by grief, holding Hamid in his arms and screaming at Oscar to do something, _do something—_

It’s funny. Oscar prefers the slight smudge at the edge of his vision, the delay in his reflexes, the extra bit of focus he has to put into his magic, over the idea of seeing his potential failure play in a jolting, nauseating loop. For a week, every time Oscar closes his eyes, he sees Zolf, his blond beard stained red.

But he’s fine. And his co-workers haven’t noticed that anything is wrong, so there’s no need to panic. Oscar just puts a bit more effort into his morning glamour, because, after all, perfection is at the snap of his fingers.

He’s fine.

Once Oscar starts nodding off at work, he finds another temple. He wakes up three times with Sasha’s face seared in his mind, her eyes dripping blood, all of her scars reopened and weeping, staring him square in the face and silently asking why he didn’t save her. He wakes up three times, thrashing, crying out, a mangled yell rising in his throat like a child having nightmares. He wakes up three times screaming and no one notices anything is wrong. It’s fine.

He’s fine. He’s _fine._

The Hermes temple that Oscar visits is plain and efficient, the caduceus on the door carved deep into the wood. He’s almost denied service for appearing so healthy, but when Oscar removes his glamour, the secretary offers him a wheelchair. He declines, but can’t even manage to add any of his typical haughty condescension into his tone. He just sounds tired.

Two clerics and a paladin cannot parse the details of his condition, save for that it might be magic. They offer to cast Sleep on him, but Oscar declines that too. He looks at himself in the mirror and barely recognises the sallow cheeks of the man staring back, the sunken eyes and pale skin. Oscar wonders when he slept last, and isn’t surprised when he can’t remember.

The Hermes lot can’t do anything for him. It’s fine. He’s fine.

One of his co-workers asks why Oscar took the day off, but a snap of his fingers has returned him to perfection, so when he smiles, the effect is withering. Oscar pats the man’s shoulders and reminds the other Meritocratic agent that it’s none of his business how Oscar spends his time.

Later in the week, Oscar wipes at his nose while he’s pouring over paperwork and his finger comes away bloody. His vision swims and his head pounds and he pulls himself together, casts Prestidigitation, and cleans himself up. No one notices how little he comes out of his office anymore. It’s fine.

He’s _fine._

Grizzop notices, though, as the sun breaks and Oscar begins his now familiar routine of clearing dried blood off of his face and snapping his fingers into perfection. The spell takes more out of him than it should, but it’s easy to lie to Grizzop. It’s the same lie that he’s telling himself.

The members of the LOLOMG are the only people in months who have asked if he’s okay. He tells them to stop asking.

He’s _fine,_ after all.

Oscar closes his eyes and sees Berti— _Sir Bertrand,_ who he never really liked that much, right? Ber— Sir Bertrand was an awful man with a terrible sense of humour, and he was crass but surprisingly witty, disgustingly privileged and rude and confident, and Oscar remembers coaxing him into softness, and he’s dead now.

It’s fine. Sir Bertrand never meant anything to him anyway.

Oscar closes his eyes and sees Hamid, his smile frozen on his face, tears in his eyes. His clothes are black and his public persona is strong and all of his friends ride in coffins ahead of him, staring blankly into the air. Oscar meets Hamid’s gaze and sees only a piercing, forever grief, tainted by the knowledge that the deaths of his colleagues — his friends — were Oscar’s fault.

Oscar can feel himself fading as he sits down at his desk, his consciousness detaching from his body, and he is fairly sure that he’s dying. He brings a hand to his lips and it comes away wet with blood, dripping from his nose, and he is pretty sure he is dying.

Oscar spends only a second afraid before he falls. He knows that, if he dies, it will be because no one notices something was wrong.

He’s fine, after all. Stop asking.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you, as always, for reading - please hmu to talk rusty quill on tumblr @thoughtsbubble or on twitter @mostlyzoe. comments and kudos are deeply appreciated!


End file.
